


Elegy

by Fabrisse



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Literary RPF, Literary Trysts It Gives Me Great Joy To Think About RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabrisse/pseuds/Fabrisse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remembrances on the occasion of the death of Walt Whitman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soundingsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundingsea/gifts).



The solicitor had been surprised when he took the box with him, rather than opening it in the offices. Some things, including grief, were far too private to share with anyone, much less an attorney who had so many other ways to poke his nose into people's private affairs. It wasn't heavy at all, but, Oscar thought, Whitman had been the lightest of men.

***  
Too much time, too little money -- these had combined a decade previously to entice Oscar to America. It was too bad that the prime months for lectures were in the winter. The crossing had been relatively smooth, but the diversions few at that dreary time of year. On the other hand, once arrived in New York, there was not a soupçon of regret that the journey had been undertaken. The hotel was luxurious; the company natural -- if a little in awe of him -- and the audiences were warm in their regard for his lectures and his personality.

Among the aristocrats in London, he was seen as an amusement, an Irishman who had been taught a trick or two, or, worse, that god-awful Bunthorne from _Patience_. But in America, where everyone made himself in his own image, rather than God's, Oscar was one of them: self-created and loved for it.

The first lecture went wonderfully well, and many people joined Oscar and Stoddart, his agent, in the room backstage which had been set aside. One man struck Oscar forcibly with his slightly hesitant, but still striding gait and his deep voice. There was a smile that passed between them, before Oscar was guided to an important woman in New York -- whose name Oscar never managed to remember -- and when he searched again, the man was gone. 

Much later that evening, after supper at Delmonico's, paid for by another wealthy American, his guide handed him some gifts that had come from people in the audience. One of them was a copy of _Leaves of Grass_ , which had long been his favorite poetry, in a new edition. A card fell out when he opened it, with a message: _Enjoyed your talk. -- Walt Whitman._

He immediately found the new poems in the volume and turned up the gas to read them. When his agent came around for lunch the next day, Oscar demanded he set up a meeting with the great American poet.

***  
There were reports in several papers about their meeting. Stoddart had stayed with them for far too long and left them alone for far too little a space of time. They hadn't talked about lectures or essays or poetry. Those thoughts could be communicated by letters, and, oh, such letters they wrote, later, when Oscar had returned to England. That day they'd talked of beautiful boys and love, in all its forms, the physical as well as the spiritual. Women had so little spirit for a man like Whitman, a man of such tenderness -- he'd spoken of the men he'd nursed in the war with kindness and respect -- and masculine energy that no woman could ever understand him. 

A kiss, deep and gentle as the man himself, was left on his lips, and Oscar had walked on air.

***  
They exchanged letters and a couple of furtive telegrams to set up their three days in Brooklyn. Oscar was speaking at the Academy of Music on February 3, and didn't have to be in Utica until February 6. It was easy to find a smaller hotel, to arrange a room for Walt near his own suite. They spent three days of passion, separated by respectable meals both alone with each other and with adoring supporters of their works. Walt's excuse was a small publishing house interested in his essays that just happened to be in Brooklyn.

Oscar counted those days as a revelation in his life. Brooklyn had been Whitman's home and he shared his love of the place as he would share a story or a meal. They took the ferry into Manhattan and walked the streets where much of Walt's early work had been written and declaimed. Oscar heard about the changes to this part of the vast city, viewed the arm and torch of the statue Bartholdi was making for the harbor, and imagined the distinct areas linked together by Broadway that had existed when Walt had been the age he was now. For the first time, he knew what it was to live in another's memory through sharing a deep understanding. They'd dined at a small restaurant which served food made for the Chinese workers and businessmen who had settled around Chatham street before taking the ferry back.

That night was perfect. Oscar dared not remember it too often for fear the perfection would fade like a flower pressed in a book. Walt left first, pressing his lips to each of Oscar's temples before taking one last lover's kiss from him.

***  
Utica was next; the first of many stops on his tour. There were so many places, so many people of every station in life who wanted to meet him. Oscar was fascinated by America, and, they, with excellent taste, returned that fascination. 

He wrote to Walt, sometimes getting replies, and in May, they were able to steal a day together at Walt's house in Camden before Oscar went to the far west to continue his tour of these very odd yet still United States.

He sent a telegram to Walt, letting him know when he would return to New York for one last day before embarking on his ship back to London. There was no reply, but he thought, for just a moment, that he glimpsed Walt on the quay as the ship was tugged out of the harbor.

***  
The letter that arrived after Oscar's marriage was unhappy. Walt chided Oscar for failing to stay true to himself, but he didn't end the correspondence, and his later letters congratulating Oscar on the births of his sons were heartfelt. 

There was a telegram from Walt when _Lady Windermere's Fan_ opened. He'd written a long letter in a cramped hand about _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ the year before, but Oscar knew his friend's health was failing. 

The announcement in _The Times_ should not have been a surprise. Constance had comforted him for the death of a friend when he'd read the obituary of the great poet, but he'd felt alone in his grief when the letter arrived from his solicitor.

***  
Oscar opened the box. There was a stack of letters tied in ribbon in his own handwriting on top. He lifted them out and found a copy of the final edition of _Leaves of Grass_ , Walt's signature tight and cramped on the title page, and a letter dictated to some scribe with a shorter note in the clearly painful handwriting of Walt's last illness. Under that was…

"Is that an elf arrow?" Bosie entered the study unannounced.

"Yes." Oscar opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of black obsidian. "I gave the elf-arrow to Whitman, and he gave me this, from his travels, in exchange. In death, it's come back to me."

"Whitman's that American poet you thought I should know."

Oscar said, "Yes. He's the American poet I think everyone should know."

"Let's go to the café tonight."

There was a long pause. "Tomorrow night, Bosie, I promise."

"In that case, let's meet at the Savoy instead."

"As you wish," Oscar said. His young lover left the room and he closed his eyes. "Tomorrow will be new. Tonight, I'll mourn."

**Author's Note:**

> It is documented that Walt Whitman met Oscar Wilde twice, both times at Wilde's request, both times at Whitman's home in New Jersey. 
> 
> Oscar Wilde toured America for most of 1882. He met Whitman on January 18, 1882 for two hours and corresponded with him while on tour. They managed another visit, longer and more private, in May of that year.
> 
> The other meetings in this story are fictional made from pieces of their lives.


End file.
